


The Menace And The Stallion

by wolver



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22563667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolver/pseuds/wolver
Summary: His real true love was hockey. Unlike relationships, his captaincy wasn't for show. This was where he excelled; this was where all his effort, passion and love went, to the sport and his team. He strived to know his teammates well, tried to ensure that nobody slipped under the cracks or got left behind. At least, most of them didn't. There was a tricky Russian behemoth that Gabe struggled to connect with, despite attacking at all angles. The English slowly improved over the months but the wall between them never seemed to budge.
Relationships: Gabriel Landeskog/Nikita Zadorov, Tyson Barrie/Nathan MacKinnon (background)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 76





	The Menace And The Stallion

"Nikita, a question--"

The lone voice caught Gabe's attention from two stalls over amid the ever increasing volume in the room. He couldn't see through the gaggle of reporters surrounding his stall, but he still tried to catch a peek of Nikita's face. 

"Z," The Russian corrected. His voice was clipped and short, and it caused a sudden hush from the group of reporters. The one singled out tried to regroup - he must be a new one because the usuals knew better than to use Nikita's given name. 

"Oh, ah yes, my apologies, Z--" The man had gathered himself somewhat, still flustered and off kilter and finally asked the question he wanted before getting derailed. It was something Nikita was going to half-ass answer anyway. Gabe tuned out after that, not concealing his amusement. 

"I love that guy," Gabe told his group of vultures. 

Nikita was definitely a personality on and off the ice.

So it went like this: nobody ever got close to him. He was there in spirit, or he was there physically, and he knew the right words to say, but no one ever bonded with him on any level except superficial. It was not easy to recognize this, either. Most were fooled with his antics: a quick crooked smile or chirp thrown in their direction that was sufficient enough to distract. 

Eventually though, some people realized they knew very little about him. This realization came like a punch in the gut. How had they not seen it before? It was so obvious now. They saw the wall he had built high, brick by painstaking brick, but what was the wall for? To keep them out or-- for their protection?

He rarely divulged any personal information so they knew nothing about him other than he was from Russia and that he played hockey. Apparently it was all that he wanted them to know. Certainly that wasn't all that was behind the mask, was it?

You knew what he wanted you to know, that was the bottom line. 

Night after night, he laid everything out on the ice. He had his faults, but this wasn't one of them. No matter how distanced he remained from the team, he still fought tooth and nail every single night without fail. It earned him respect, a distanced one, but respect nonetheless.

Their resident Russian: nobody ever knew what to make of him.

There was another man who was nearly as quiet as the Russian about his life. A Swede; a focal point of the team: the captain. But there was one difference: he grew up in the spotlight so everyone already knew his dirty laundry. There were very few secrets allowed in his life, and those few he held very tight to his chest. He remained as tight lipped as he could.

Every failed relationship ended up floating on the internet somewhere. It was less so on his own accord, and more so because money talked and all the former lovers were unable to deny the insatiable words, crafted into a alluring lullaby of wealth and luxury. Or whatever it was that attracted them in the first place (the good looks, Tyson would insist, always the golden stallion god thing you have going and the perfect mane. Gabe always raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow in response, but he knew Tyson had a point. Always did).

Those relationships were few and far between. They were mostly for show anyway, and to give him the ability to keep his secrets close and under the radar. When was Gabe's next new relationship going to surface? It always kept the public guessing. They seemed to enjoy the thrill of the chase and who was Gabe to deny them that? He was a very giving man, after all.

His real true love was hockey. Unlike relationships, his captaincy wasn't for show. This was where he excelled; this was where all his effort, passion and love went, to the sport and his team. He strived to know his teammates well, tried to ensure that nobody slipped under the cracks or got left behind. At least, most of them didn't. There was a tricky Russian behemoth that Gabe struggled to connect with, despite attacking at all angles. The English slowly improved over the months but the wall between them never seemed to budge.

"What are you doing?" Gabe snapped. "Stop getting cute out there."

Tensions were high. They were getting beat out on the ice, though the scoreboard reflected they were only down by a goal. They were still in the game, but barely. It felt like a losing battle, and that they were clawing their way up a concrete wall, only to get nowhere at all. To get nothing but bloody and ripped fingernails.

Nikita's already stoic gaze only hardened on him. He wasn't afraid of the C on Gabe's jersey and what that meant. 

"I not one that forgot to cover D."

That wasn't Gabe's fault. Everyone in the room knew that, but no one was willing to interrupt them and clarify. It wasn't the issue, not really. Whether there was an actual issue at play or not, it was more likely a simple case of tempers already flaring and anger being misdirected.

"Focus on your assignment," Gabe gritted out. He tried to keep it civil because the last thing they need to do is turn on each other. But the way that Nikita narrowed his eyes it was obvious that he was failing.

"Stop get push around front of net." The words were cool and they struck a chord deep in Gabe, probably gaining the exact reaction that Nikita wanted. But before he could lunge someone stepped in front of him, hands on his shoulders to push him back.

"Sit the fuck down," Coach snapped. "This isn't productive and you know it. Save your playground fights for your free time. Got it?" His tone booked no argument. 

Gabe immediately sat down on the bench with a thud. The anger was wiped out with a wave of shame. This wasn't how to lead by example; this was a great example of how not to lead. He tried to focus on the Coach's words and get his head back into the game. But despite it, his gaze kept drifting to Nikita who he'd always find watching him. There weren't any traces left of their fight on his face, but he remained unreadable as ever. 

By the end of the night they had still lost the game. A goal to tie the game, but the Blues snuck one in late and they just couldn't find the back of the net again. It never felt good to lose to the Blues. Everyone was quiet as they grabbed their things, and a defeated air was hovering damp and heavy in the room.

Gabe changed while keeping an eye on Nikita, timing it so they were ready at the same time. And shamelessly he hurried to fall in step beside Nikita. All he was graced with was a glance that screamed resignation, like he had expected something like this to happen. Which, rude, since Gabe hadn't even formed the thought until about ten minutes ago.

"I'd like to talk," Gabe said. Nikita grunted next to him.

"You are talk. You talk lot."

"About earlier," Gabe pressed on, pushing past the flippant answer. "I want to apologize. I didn't mean to take out my anger on you."

Nikita held open the door for Gabe, his lips twisting into something amused, and he said, "Relax. Take off captain hat. Jump out saddle."

"Look, I take my job very seriously," he replied, but he had his own smile on his face and it felt like they were sharing a moment. If those things existed, that was, because Gabe wasn't too sure. 

"Captain Serious Pants. Got it."

It was time for them to part their ways, but Gabe was suddenly reluctant. He stood on the pavement and looked out over the parking lot, eyes glancing off the cars but not really seeing them. 

"Hey--" he said the same time as Nikita said, "Drink?"

Gabe swatted at Nikita's arm, but said, "Yeah. Let's grab a drink."

The situation that Gabe was now currently in was not to his favor, nor ever will be when he was trying to go head to head with a Russian whose free time was probably spent drinking copious amounts of hard liquor. God damn could they hold their alcohol. It was impressive and quite frankly rather scary to think about what was happening to their livers. But to put it simply Gabe was quite drunk. 

Nikita tried to grab the glass to refill it, but Gabe fought with him and smacked his hand over the rim to keep any liquid from entering the glass. So it sloshed over his hand. 

"You waste it," Nikita said with a laugh and tried to shove him away. Whether he was trying to shove Gabe away completely or just his hand from the glass it was unclear. It ended up with some swatting and Nikita coming perilously close to spilling more of the liquor. 

"Fuck," Gabe groaned out. The room may or may have not started to spin. only a little, and in the way that he'd probably fall over if Nikita wasn't plastered to his side, but just a little. "Uncle! Uncle!"

"Not uncle," the Russian mumbled, but didn't further press anymore liquor on Gabe. 

They sat there on Nikita's couch and while in a drunken haze Gabe marveled that he was even here at all. The place was exactly as he had imagined, with what little imagining he'd done because Gabe didn't sit around and ponder Nikita's house. Not much. But it made sense: Nikita's style seemed to gravitate to everything expensive and the decor reflected that. 

"You like the expensive shit, don't you?" It wasn't until Nikita stiffened beside him that Gabe realized he'd said that out loud. Though the stiffness slowly slipped away until he was comfortably plastered against Gabe's side again.

"Might."

"Is my ass even worthy enough to sit on this couch?"

Nikita chuckled. "It do okay."

"Okay!" Gabe protested. "I have so much junk in the trunk--" A hand quickly clapped over his mouth and Gabe was relieved because he wasn't sure if he could stop talking on his own. He'd been plied with enough alcohol that the words were flowing freely.

"Ass magical," Nikita agreed in a solemn and serious tone, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. This amused him and it was such a great thing to see that Gabe didn't even mind that it was to the expense of his ass.

It was the middle of a losing streak, or at the end of one (if one was to be optimistic), and it felt like it was going on forever at this point. They were five losses in and in a mere two weeks was Christmas. The middle of the season was quickly approaching and their momentum was sputtering out. There was no reason to start to panic because there was still plenty of time, but it was part of Gabe's cross to bear, so to speak. The wheels were always turning in his mind and it was fair to say he obsessed from time to time. A lot of the time, probably.

"Gabriel!" A voice boomed through the locker room and Gabe jumped, his head snapping up.

"What, Tys?"

"We're all going out to dinner. You're coming with us."

So the thing with Tyson Barrie was that when his mind was made up then it was a done deal: whatever he wanted was happening, be it hell or highwater outside it didn't matter, he was dragging Gabe to dinner. That was that. And Gabe knew that arguing with him was futile, not unless Gabe had a super good reason that involved either getting laid or he was seconds from projectile vomiting, which no, Gabe didn't have an excuse. Nor the wherewithal to take on an extended arguing session and hold until he was victorious.

"Next time I want to do something you claim is stupid you're coming with me without a peep, got it?"

Tyson held up two fingers, scouts honor. "You bet, Landesnerd."

Fat chance, but Gabe nodded sagely like he'd won that round and grabbed the rest of his things. There was no point in sitting on the bench and obsessing over plays on the tablet any longer.

 _We_ consisted of a group of guys from the team from Tyson and Nate (attached to the hip), Jost and Compher (also attached to the hip), EJ, Mikko and to Gabe's surprise: Z. A surprise because Nikita never came to these impromptu dinners but he was here, looking vaguely amused at something EJ was whispering about. 

Whispering and pointing in Gabe's direction, what the fuck.

Gabe walked over to the group, but before he could comment EJ spoke up, "Hey cap. finished primping, yeah? I'm starved here." He smiled a wide toothy smile sans a few teeth there in the front. 

"I swear to god, you guys," Gabe muttered. "Such a stitch in the side."

"I'll stitch your side." A chorus of remarks followed that and Gabe half-tuned them out. Instead, his gaze met Nikita's who cocked his head at him, curious. He managed a quirk of the mouth and weaved through the small group to hang out at Nikita's side.

"You not want here?" Nikita asked him.

"It's not that," he hedged. He was reluctant to admit his obsession suddenly, though everyone already knew about it (how could they not) but at Nikita's intense stare he was compelled to continue, "I just want to get us back on track."

"Oh," Nikita said with a knowing nod. "Captain pants still on."

"You could say that."

"It okay," Nikita patted his head, "we help change pants."

"What the fuck, no." 

Gabe cracked a smile for the first time in what felt like weeks. To say that he wasn't in the best mood was fair. His mind was still submerged in strategies and matchups and stats and numbers and trying to make sense of their season to date; sink or swim, and they were steadily sinking. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged out to dinner when all he really desired was to be alone for awhile. But other than the whole Tyson getting what he wanted thing it was also really hard to say no to him: like, his pout tended to be lethal and Gabe caved every single time.

"Beer," Nikita said.

"Two," Gabe replied.

He wasn't going to lie: Gabe kept trying to find an opportunity where he could recreate the night he'd spend with Nikita and drank him out of house and home. Or the night he'd spent on the expensive couch and woke up with a hideous hangover. But the timing never seemed to work out, either Nikita had already left or he was busy, or Gabe was simply too exhausted to do anything but go home and crash. It wasn't working out too well in his favor just yet.

This was one of those nights, where the game had been a physical one and it not only drained him physically but mentally as well. Taxing in all aspects. Plus Gabe had received a hard check where he launched awkwardly in the boards, and the team had been screaming it was an illegal hit, with no resulting penalty on the play. Gabe didn't know, hadn't seen it, and probably won't tonight. He remembered very little of the sequence, only that Nate had gone after the guy in a fury of rage and protectiveness. 

After, later, Nikita hounded the opposing player for the rest of the game, or at least until he got benched because Coach said back down and Nikita refused.

So it was one of those nights.

Gabe was only vaguely aware that they had won the game and it was just taking most of his focus to keep upright and change out of his hockey gear. He should go soak, he should get a massage, should this and should that, but sleep called his name and Gabe was helpless to deny. He waved off anyone that tried to talk to him: yes, he was fine and no he didn't need any help. But then Nikita was at his side, a hand gently pressing into his lower back to guide him out the door as Gabe walked in that direction.

"Let me take home." The eye roll wasn't as dramatic as Gabe was aiming for, and it only caused Nikita to smirk at him.

"Taking advantage of a helpless man? Here I expected better of you."

They maneuvered through the doorway, which was harder than it had to be because Nikita seemed very disinclined to move from Gabe's side. 

"They're all going to talk, you know," Gabe added.

That got an eye roll from Nikita this time. "Let talk. They always talk. All know how to do."

"That's not true." It was a weak protest because they both knew the truth. Most of the team was a bunch of gossips that could talk someone's head off whether they had anything of substance to talk about or not. "Okay," Gabe conceded. "They do talk a lot sometimes, like a lot a lot, but they're good guys."

Nikita reluctantly nodded but had nothing further to say about that. They lulled into a comfortable silence while Nikita drove him home.

"Do you want to come inside? Have a drink or four?"

Nikita agreed and they went inside. Eyes heavy, and unfocused, Gabe was half-falling asleep there on the couch and neither of them really seemed inclined to pull out the alcohol. Gabe was pretty sure that one sip would knock him the fuck out. 

They sat there and eventually Nikita nudged his side. 

"Bed."

"Okay," Gabe agreed but didn't move.

It was an effort but eventually they stumbled to the bedroom, with Gabe leaning a lot of his body weight against Nikita, who thankfully seemed capable enough to support him. Or they'd crash into a large heap on the hallway floor and if so, then they were done, Gabe wasn't going any further: they were sleeping in the hall on the rug that wasn't thick enough to protect from the hard flooring. At least that wasn't the case and they each found a comfortable bed: Gabe his own, and Nikita grabbed the spare bedroom.

So maybe they didn't drink, but Nikita was there in the morning and Gabe didn't have a nasty hangover. It was a win in his book.

"Do you want to talk about why you were benched?" Gabe asked in the morning. "Do you want coffee?"

"Da."

"Okay. But what about the coffee?" Gabe was unable to keep a straight face at the look Nikita shot his way so he smiled and winked. "Seriously though, what happened?"

There wasn't any talking in the kitchen for awhile, the only sounds were from Gabe finishing up their breakfast and humming under his breath. He sat down two plates with omelettes, toast, and fruit with two mugs of coffee before taking his own seat at the table. 

It was halfway through breakfast before Nikita spoke again, "He hit you."

"I haven't saw what happened yet, but I hear it was a dirty play."

There was a shrug from Nikita and Gabe didn't expect him to speak again, but he finally said, "Bullshit play. Refs blind. Kept shit talking you and not like it."

"But you can't just go after the guy the way you did. You have to keep yourself in line."

"No," Nikita replied shortly. "He hurt you. I not stand for that."

Gabe gave him a small look but he doesn't press the subject any further, knowing it was going to fall on deaf ears. Nikita lived up to his own moral code and if someone fucked over someone he cared about then there was going to be hell to pay.

Every year Gabe hosted the team's Christmas party at his house and every year it was a grandiose affair where Gabe worked his ass off to make sure that everything went smoothly, that the liquor kept flowing and there was never an empty plate. So that everyone was plied with too much liquor, food, and good holiday cheer, enough to be distracted from any current hockey events. And it gave him something to put his nervous energy into; plus, Gabe loved Christmas and everything it represented: being around loved ones, a giving nature, and enjoying the season. Also snow, lots and lots of snow. 

Nearly everyone on the team would come, either bringing a significant other or "bumming it" as Tyson would call it (and then attach himself to Nate's hip, which, subtle much?), but everyone came and it was a grand time. Gabe made note that Nikita decided to grace them with his presence this year, offering a bottle of some obscure and probably expensive scotch that Gabe didn't recognize, but accepted nonetheless. Booze was booze and this was Christmas. 

Every party had their lightweight drinkers and thankfully, thankfully Tyson Barrie was one of theirs because if anyone, that man knew how to have a good time. Enough of a good time that multiple occasions Nate would have to reel him back in before he went off the deep end. 

Right now was a game of strip poker that Gabe respectfully declined. He opted to hang back and watch with Nate. To see Tyson be absolutely crushed at the game, and see the other Tyson possibly cheating with Compher half-hanging over his shoulder. Girard also sat at the table still fully dressed, looking as if maybe he regretted every life decision, and Kerfy was shirtless and enjoying the show.

"One sock!" Tyson argued with the other Tyson. "One sock counts! Look it up!"

"But you need both socks! Both socks if you want uh," Josty paused to sip his beer, "Look. Do you want to do a handstand or not?"

"What the fuck!" Compher complained and Tyson Barrie said, "No, I don't want to do-- what the fuck?"

"If you want to do it right, look okay, look. Put the socks on your hands because now they're your feet. What's so complicated? So you need two socks and that's why you can't--"

"I'm finding saner company," Compher commented to no one and disappeared through the crowd.

"Can I go too?" Girard asked when the noise briefly died down.

"That's a hard no!" Tyson shouted. "Everyone sit down so we can do th-- Josty! No, get the fuck back here, stop making googly eyes at your boyfriend, oh my god--"

Gabe shifted an amused look at Nate who was still standing next to him and asked, "Gonna reel him in yet?"

"Nah, he's doing okay."

But then Nikita supplied shots to everyone and all hell broke loose. Tempers flared and ebbed and voices raised and finally Nate had to go rescue the situation before someone got hurt or the more apt: butthurt, because that was Tyson's specialty.

Gabe felt a tug on his sleeve and shifted his gaze to Mikko who now stood next to him.

"What's a twink?" Mikko asked him and Gabe choked on a sip of his wine, feeling the burn creeping up the back of his nasal passages. And Mikko looked alarmed at this, like he'd asked the wrong thing and possibly offended Gabe. 

"Go ask Nate," he rasped out and coughed and slipped away to maybe find some of his own saner company as well.

Gabe found himself in the kitchen. He tossed out some trash and sat out new bottles of wine, beer, and what have you, and did a basic restock of everything. Mostly the alcohol because the consuming had ramped up at this point of the evening and the eating had taken a backseat.

"Stop messing," a voice behind him said, a thick Russian accent that was unmistakable.

"I'm being a good host," Gabe argued and turned to face him. The look on Nikita's face showed that he didn't quite believe him. 

A cheer went up from the living room and Gabe could only imagine what it was for, because while voices carried to the kitchen they were not quite intelligible. 

"You hiding."

"Maybe," Gabe admitted.

"Me too. Want drink?"

And that was how his search for saner company ended up with him in his bedroom, sitting on the bed with Nikita, and sharing the bottle of scotch. Because drinking with Nikita was always the saner choice, obviously.

"Are they fucking?" Nikita asked him, a few glasses in, and still not betraying how much he'd been drinking. While Gabe on the other hand felt the room starting to tilt, a warmth creeping up his spine, and now that he was alone he could let out the breath he was holding.

"Probably. Who?"

But Nikita doesn't elaborate.

They ended up lying side by side on the bed, and Gabe stared up at the ceiling, hearing the faint thrum of the beat from downstairs. 

"Should I go back down?" He finally asked.

"They not need babysitter."

Gabe was tempted to argue that further, but he knew Nate was downstairs and responsible enough to not let Gabe's house get burned down or destroyed too badly, so he swallowed the protest and closed his eyes. With Nikita's presence warm against his side he eventually drifted off. 

In the morning Gabe woke to Nikita at his side and it seemed like the house still stood around them. Upon further inspection Gabe found the rest of the house was indeed still standing and intact. There was a lot of trash and also a few teammates strewn about, asleep and drooling and oblivious to incoming hangovers, but nothing that Gabe couldn't shove into a trash bag.

"Animals," Nikita said somewhere behind him. His voice was still rough from sleep; he looked sleep rumpled, his hair messy and everything about him felt so soft, so gentle. Gabe had to physically resist the urge to reach out to him.

"Generous," Gabe retorted instead with a small grin and looked away. "I was thinking it looked more like a bunch of trash, but maybe you're right."

"I get trash bag."

"We might need two."

New Years Eve was very similar to Christmas, but this time Nikita stuck around a lot closer to him and made sure Gabe didn't flutter about too obsessively because _take off your captain pants and relax_. Plus he threatened to start throwing things at Gabe and they'd probably be things that hurt. _But I'm the host!_ and it'd end with Gabe grumbling under his breath but ultimately relenting because, why, he wasn't sure. It certainly wasn't because Nikita was convincing, not at all. 

Later on though, when the clock was ticking closer to midnight, Nikita was nowhere to be seen. Not that Gabe looked, very hard, and okay, maybe he did look a little. He was merely curious where the guy had gone and maybe a little more curious who he'd kiss at midnight because, like Gabe, Nikita hadn't come with anyone but a bottle of booze.

If it was weird that the host of the party was stag no one was calling him out on it. As ridiculous as his teammates were they did have the grace and respect to never put him in a spot, or at least a spot where it crossed personal boundaries. It helped that this was a closer group of people than the Christmas party. 

Though when Tyson planted Gabe next to him on the couch it was pretty obvious that he was trying to make sure that Gabe felt included, which Tyson, what? What was the thinking here? He wasn't going to jump in someone's midnight kiss here. 

Although... tempting...

"Gabe. Gabe! Gabe!" Gabe startled and looked at Tyson. 

Tyson, who, looked absolutely ridiculous with the gimicky headbands that declared 2019 in a lot of gaudy silver glitter (that Gabe was unfortunately wearing as well) and fuck Tyson, they were retarded as hell. The damn glitter was everywhere too: in Gabe's hair, on his hands, and probably on his face. But he had to admit that it was pretty fun, because Tyson's glee was always infectious and he never disappointed in these situations. It was just the fact that Gabe was thoroughly distracted by wondering where Nikita had disappeared.

"What? You don't have to yell. I'm right here."

"The ball is about to drop. Pay attention!"

"I'm paying attention," he lied, but Tyson's skeptical look showed he didn't believe him, though that was fair. 

Then the countdown finished, the ball hit midnight, and the familiar Auld Lang Syne drifted from the television. Gabe kept his eyes planted on the show and the showers of confetti that seemed to sparkle in the lighting, showering all the happy and hopeful faces. This really wasn't his jam right now so he got up, unable to not sneak a peek at Tyson totally swapping spit with Nate (gross, but also hot), and he navigated out of the room, trying not to peek at anymore couples. Who they kissed, and if it was even indeed their date or not, wasn't his concern.

Gabe grabbed a beer from the kitchen and moseyed in the direction of his bedroom. Too much commotion and he was now enjoying the sudden silence the change in location brought. Then someone met him in the hallway, appearing from what felt like nowhere.

"Hey," he said dumbly.

"Hey," Nikita mimicked back, not unkindly. 

Gabe leaned against the wall since there was no way around this giant wall of a man and he took a sip from his beer. Then Nikita grabbed the bottle from him, taking his own sip with his eyes remaining on Gabe. Almost like he was challenging him, or fortifying himself.

Another long sip and Gabe realized it was the latter.

The beer ended up, Gabe didn't know where, and Nikita's hands cupped his face before he kissed him. Right on the mouth. It took Gabe so off guard that he made a soft noise of surprise, not finding his wits about him enough to kiss back before Nikita was already drawing away. 

"Happy New Year," Nikita said.

"Happy New Year," Gabe replied faintly, automatically, staring at Nikita's retreating back in wonder.

Things were finally turning themselves around and their momentum was growing, now winning six out of the last eight games in January. Gabe was doing an after practice interview and expressing his pleasure for the way the team was playing lately, because they were cohesive, so cohesive. Communication was great and everything clicked on all cylinders. Like always, Gabe could still find some negatives, but he was opting to stay positive. They were making progress and that was the important part.

"Oh f-" he managed to swallow the curse, censoring himself for the camera, when he felt the sudden temperature difference of ice being shoved down the back of his gear. A glance over and he saw Nikita skating away laughing, because who else? Nikita had seemed to take over for resident goofy-pain-in-the-ass. 

"That's our big Z," Gabe commented to the camera, an amused smile curling his lips. 

Practices went a lot like this: 

A gentle slash here or a shove there, Gabe and Nikita were always against each other and constantly competing for dominance, driven to one-up the other. Then the times where they really got going and fought for control of the puck by any means necessary. Those were the shows: where the rest of the team stood around to watch them shove, scramble, trip, body check, and claw their way to the puck. Those were the practices where Gabe, sweaty and exhausted and unable to stop laughing, would have to shout _uncle_ because Nikita had him pinned to the ice or the boards.

"I win," Nikita gloated.

"This time," Gabe attempted to glower. "Next time watch your ass."

After practice came and on Gabe's way out of the building, someone caught up to him and linked their arms together.

"Hello bestie," Tyson said.

Gabe was immediately on the defensive. There was something about Tyson's tone that gave him the impression that the guy was up to no good (but wasn't that always?) and Gabe lifted an eyebrow in response, saying, "Hello, Tyson. What can I do for you?"

"You're going to take me out for lunch, of course. We have a lot to catch up on."

"We do," Gabe agreed easily, but inwardly he was raking his mind for something, and nothing stuck out. It'd only been a week since he'd last hung out with Tyson outside hockey and since he talked to the guy constantly while at practices then really, there wasn't much to catch up on. So he was going to guess Tyson was either plotting or prying, his specialities.

Lunch consisted of their favorite hole-in-the-wall diner they frequented. Gabe got his typical chicken salad sandwich (ew, there were grapes in it, Tyson whined) and Tyson his ham and cheese on marbled rye bread. Everything fairing up pretty normal so far, with their usual witty banter and Gabe thought maybe he was safe this time, that Tyson hadn't really had anything in mind and wanted to merely be dramatic. This was Tyson: it wasn't past the realm of possibility.

"Look, I don't care if EJ thinks I cheated or not, he totally owes me fifty bucks. I want my money!"

"But you don't need the money."

"It's the principle, Gabe. I won fair and square."

"EJ isn't going to give you the money," Gabe replied mildly.

Tyson tipped his head back and groaned. "Fuck!" But then he fixed an intense look on Gabe, "But can't you talk some sense into him or something? He thinks you're the bomb-shizzle, Gabe. Please?"

"Give it a rest, pal, you're not getting the money."

Tyson narrowed his eyes at Gabe before his shoulders slumped in defeat, finally giving up the ghost. He pushed his plate closer towards Gabe's side of the table, which on the plate all that remained was a single dill pickle spear. Gabe accepted it and ate it.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You know can. What's up, Tys?"

It looked like he was trying to pick his words, and he finally asked, "Is something up between you and Z?" Dark eyes were assessing him, watching, waiting, and with others it'd make him feel uncomfortable, or put in a spot, but this was Tyson. This was one of his best friends and Tyson doesn't have a mean bone in his body. All he ever cared about was the well being of his friends.

So Gabe didn't have an issue being honest, "No, not really. Why?"

"You know why," Tyson countered, but he continued, "He kept everyone at arm's length, until you."

Gabe's eyes drifted away when he heard a clatter of silverware across the diner, sweeping his gaze over the various patrons and staff, seeing them but yet not really. He blinked and looked back at Tyson. 

"I don't have a lot to tell you," he admitted, "But he did kiss me on New Years Eve."

That, predictably grabbed Tyson's focus and held it super tight. His eyes widened and jaw dropped. "What?" he squawked out too loudly before he coughed and cleared his throat, repeating in a much more respectable tone, "What?" Tyson scrambled out of his seat and moved to join Gabe on his bench, in which Gabe automatically slid over to accommodate him.

Gabe shrugged. "I don't think he wants to talk about it. He didn't run away, but he hasn't brought it up since."

"Maybe he's waiting on you, pal. Do you want it to happen again?"

"I don't know. I don't think I'd... mind if it did." When Tyson's eyes lit up, Gabe added quickly, "Don't interfere, Tyson. Do not."

With two fingers pressed together, Tyson saluted. "Canadian scout's honor."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me. I tell you everything. Am I still even your best friend anymore? God, Gabriel. I feel so slighted out of this juicy--"

And there it was.

Two hours later and Tyson finally cracked under the pressure. The video game remained on the title screen and it was obvious that Gabe had lost Tyson's attention there. And Tyson was flailing his hands, which meant the controller followed suit, and that wasn't conductive to safety so Gabe took it from him and placed it away from Tyson's reach.

"Nate," Gabe shot back, interrupting whatever crap he wanted to whine about. It was enough to get the point across because Tyson's face instantly turned to a mix of a bashfulness and what was that? Pride? Happiness? Maybe all of the above.

"Look," Tyson whispered before he bit at his lip. His eyes narrowed as he thought. "Look, I don't know, okay? It just happened. I don't even know what happened. Just one day things felt different, more... intimate. Does that make sense?"

Gabe slowly nodded his head because that did make sense, that made a lot of sense. 

"We haven't really done anything. A few kisses, hand holding, dates. All that stuff. I think he likes the courting. He's so lame." Tyson grinned, but it was obvious that he found some pleasure from it.

"Oh, terrible," Gabe agreed, his tone dry.

They shared a grin before Tyson tackled him to the floor and they wrestled until Gabe rolled onto a controller, the device digging into his back. He grunted and flailed to fish it out before tossing it away. Tyson never moved from his spot where he was half-wrapped around Gabe like an octopus, just relaxed so they were cuddling there on the floor. The position left a lot to be desired, Gabe's back ached but he never moved. 

"Talk to him, okay? I want you to be happy too."

"I am happy. I have hockey."

"Hockey doesn't get you laid as much as we all want it to. So we have to find an outside source for that. You know the whole boy likes other boy--"

Gabe clapped a hand over Tyson's mouth. "Okay, I get it. I'll try to talk to him."

Easier said than done.

Gabe was true to his word: he did try. He tried to talk to Nikita many times, but the words never came nor was it ever the right time to bring it up. Or whatever excuse he could come up with. His thoughts were his worst enemy and he second guessed, worried, and thought way too much on the subject. To put it simply: he chickened out. 

He tried. He did.

There was the perfect opportunity after lunch when Gabe was sitting in the lounge with his headphones on, though he was woefully unprepared and taken off guard. Nikita walked up to him and took a seat on the wooden arm rest of his chair, balancing precariously and a sway from toppling into Gabe's lap.

"Oh hello," Gabe said and slipped his headphones off. "Do you understand the concept of personal space?"

"No. What personal space?" 

Gabe merely shook his head and asked, "What's up?"

"Nothing. Think I make grown man cry." The comment was dropped so casually that it startled a soft laugh out of Gabe. Nikita looked pleased.

"What did you do this time?"

"Beat Belly at soccer. Then hit him in head with ball. Not all purpose. He gloat, but not now."

Gabe laughed. "So you put him in his place, that sounds like you. Very intimidating."

Nikita now beamed at him. "Thank you, Gabriel."

"You're welcome, Z."

Nikita lifted his hand with what seemed the intention to only pat Gabe's head, for some reason, though it morphed into tugging at a strand of loose blond hair and playing with it. A soothing gesture that Gabe won't outwardly admit that he totally leaned into it.

"You not intimidated by me, right? Am I scary killing machine? Make you shake in boot?"

Gabe narrowed his eyes in thought. "You're a terrifying Russian bear that's seconds from mauling my face, yes. Very intimidated indeed."

"Oh good." There was a pleased look on his face. "It mean lot coming from Ikea boy."

Gabe grunted at the familiar insult. He shoved at Nikita with the intent of pushing him away, except, Gabe forgot the seating situation. So of course Nikita lost his balance and his arms flailed everywhere, leading to an elbow to Gabe's face, and followed by a heavy Russian in his lap.

"Ow fuck. Fucking--" He grunted out and grabbed at the flailing arms. "You're not falling off a cliff, what the fuck, stop."

Nikita gave him a look. "Shut up. I fall from farther distance than you." He wasn't trying very hard to move out of Gabe's lap, instead more like making himself at home. 

Across the room came a booming laugh and the exclamation, "Z, what the hell are you doing?" Colesy's voice.

"Making move on Landy here, go way!" He shouted back. 

There was a trail of laughter as Colesy walked away, leaving them alone again. And Gabe really wanted to say something, it was the perfect moment. Their gazes met and something burned between the two of them, hot and bright. But then there was a clatter somewhere in the distance and the moment broke, where it brought them back to reality, the flare fizzling out. 

Nikita got to his feet and won't meet his gaze. "I see you." 

Then he was gone and Gabe whispered, "Fuck."

Gabe was restless the rest of the day, and it showed: he was antsy and sloppy at practice, quicker to anger than usual, and afterwards no one bothered him when he left.

April dawned and they were fighting for a playoff spot, only two games out, and daily the standings were changing. Gabe kept a close eye on where they were, knowing that every game was becoming more and more critical. They were well within range and the team had some good momentum going recently. 

Then they went up against the Blackhawks, for the tenth time this season (it felt), and tempers were starting to flare near the end of the game. The game was a tight affair, scoreless through two and a half periods, and the Hawks were doing everything they could to entice the Avalanche into a mistake. Over and over Gabe said, don't listen to them, don't let them beat you.

So far, so good. 

Until Nikita got into a shoving match with one of the forwards, and a lot of shouting, cursing, and pushing erupted. 

"Fucking Z," Gabe cursed, shoving a Hawks player back and kept him from getting into the scrum. 

The whistle blew and Nikita was sent to the box for roughing, putting the Hawks on a power play. Which, predictably, they scored because that was how things worked. All the while Gabe was spitting mad, because he fucking knew this would happen, that someone would take a stupid penalty and put them in this position. The rest of the game he played like a bat shot out of hell, with a fury that was unmatched on the ice; if a player didn't get out of his way then he ran them over, easily beating all of his coverage, and flew across the ice strong and powerful and unbeatable.

In moments of reflection Gabe realized these were the moments that Nate had described as finding your God Mode, where your will became a force to be reckoned with, where you were on a different plane altogether.

Too bad it was all because he was pissed at Nikita.

After the game Gabe zeroed in on Nikita and shoved him roughly up against the wall, constantly shoving him back when he tried to move away. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? I told you, I _told_ you not to fucking take a penalty. And what do you do--"

"Get off me," Nikita said in a deep voice, a warning. And fuck that, Gabe wasn't in the mood for any bullshit and he took a swing at Nikita, his fist meeting the guy's left eye in solid contact.

It all happened so fast after that, where Nikita had shoved him backwards and they were wrestling, a few swings here and there, but Gabe lost count. Then they were pulled apart and Gabe finally dropped his focus from Nikita and rejoined the rest of the room, that was currently in a commotion because of them, trying to seperate them and not let anyone else get hurt. 

Gabe was shoved into a room, shoved into a chair and when he tried to get up Nate said in a low and vicious enough tone to get his attention, "Do not fucking move." So Gabe reluctantly settled, though he was still buzzing with anger, and he clenched and unclenched his fists a few times. Nate stood there and merely watched him, a fire dancing behind his eyes that Gabe was too distracted with himself to notice.

"Are you finished?" Nate asked him eventually.

Gabe stayed quiet but he did nod, once.

"Good. Now I want you to listen very closely to me, okay Gabe?" Gabe lifted his gaze to meet Nate's, with the intention to be challenging, but one look at Nate's expression caused him to think twice and watch him passively. "You need to figure out whatever the hell's going on between you and Z, okay? Because this needs to stop. It's wearing on the team."

"There's not--"

Nate cut him off, "I don't want to hear it. You talk to him. You guys are so hot and cold it's giving everyone whiplash. Fix it." He leaned in so their faces were inches apart and repeated, "Fix. It."

Then Nate disappeared through the door and left Gabe sitting there alone, feeling cold and selfish and very very tired. He finally noticed his lip ached and Gabe licked it, tasting a coppery tang where it split, hadn't even realized he was punched in the mouth. So he sucked on his lip and sat there a long time, waiting for everyone to clear out so he didn't have to face anyone. He knew they'd understand, that they've all been at points where frustration boiled over into something less pretty and more messy than intended. They were a good group of guys, but Gabe wanted to be alone because he had nothing to tell them, to explain how this mess even happened. 

Right now he was running on empty. 

His wish was almost granted; Gabe was alone until he got outside and he saw Nikita, obviously waiting on him because he pushed off the wall and moved closer. Gabe tensed, but he was too exhausted to care much at this point.

Nikita rocked on his feet, once, before he offered, "Drink?" and Gabe nodded, weary and wary.

They go to Nikita's place and Gabe all but collapsed on the couch, resting his head back and closing his eyes. He only lifted his head when he felt the cushion dip beside him and opened his eyes to find Nikita offering him a glass. A wine glass, and upon inspection Gabe confirmed it is indeed wine, a rich red wine. Gabe lifted his eyebrow; this wasn't Nikita's usual drink of choice, and Gabe wasn't sure if Nikita even drank wine to begin with, not really his style and all.

Nikita shrugged a shoulder. "Not trying knock you off feet," he said.

"Anything can knock me off my feet right now," Gabe mumbled.

Nikita reached a hand out to very gingerly touch Gabe's mouth with his thumb, and the touch caused Gabe's eyes to flutter. "I not mean to hurt."

"I didn't mean to yell at you either. Or punch you. I'm sorry, Z."

Gabe inspected the damage around Nikita's eye. The skin was swelling and already bruising, so it looked very tender and Gabe reached out to touch but he hesitated halfway there. There was a slight nod from Nikita so Gabe gently touched around the swelling. 

"It okay. No worry. Punch like little girl anyway."

Gabe snorted out a soft laugh. "I bet your eye wishes I did punch like a little girl right now."

The guy made a noncommittal noise and did not respond to that. His dark eyes were on Gabe's face, at times lingering on his mouth and it could be only because he was staring at the split lip, but Gabe suspected otherwise. Finally, Nikita tore his eyes away and downed his glass of wine.

"I'd kiss you back this time," Gabe blurted out, surprising not only Nikita with the statement but himself. That wasn't exactly what he'd been planning to say here, because his mind had all these things to say and they should talk, they should, but apparently the rest of him didn't want to.

"Oh. Punch me then kiss me?"

"I never said I was easy," Gabe retorted.

The talking doesn't go any further because Nikita lightly kissed him. Ignoring the sting of his lip, Gabe angled the kiss more so their lips slotted together better, and the kiss didn't stay chaste for long, quickly deepening into something much more desperate and needy.

Nikita had enough sense to take the glass from Gabe's hand and place it on the coffee table before going further. Which was good because yeah, no one else in the room had that sense, at all. Gabe was blaming his exhaustion for all his senses suddenly being fried.

They never ended up talking. 

Clothes ended up on the floor of the bedroom and their bodies ended up in a tangled sweaty mess on the bed. Nikita's weight pressed down on him, a heavy, warm and stable presence that has every nerve firing. Every inch of skin that touched felt on fire and when Nikita angled their hips together in just the right way where their cocks slid together, a rough delicious friction that brought a low groan from each of them.

Nikita surged down to kiss Gabe, and Gabe melted into the kiss. Their hips hitched together; neither of them were very coordinated and neither of them had the energy to do much more than grind on each other. When Nikita's hand cupped his ass Gabe felt his desperation kick up a notch, and he wrapped his legs around Nikita's waist. He very much wanted more, but he knew his energy was running dangerously low.

"Nikita," he breathed.

"I know," he grunted out. "I know."

It was an overload of pleasure and his release snuck up on him faster than usual. He'd blame it on his exhaustion and their dance, their tiptoeing around this unnamed thing for months now, their chemistry sizzling. And his pleasure built into the point of no return, his nails dug into Nikita's back as his body tensed and he released between them. Not long after Nikita followed with his own release, with his mouth at Gabe's neck, sucking and biting at the delicate skin of his throat.

"Nikita," he gasped out. And Nikita lifted his head to kiss him, again and again.

"You look like the cat got the cream."

"Tyson!" Gabe hissed, because while the statement didn't make sense to him Tyson's behavior was suspicious enough. Tyson Barrie appeared next to him the second that Gabe arrived in the locker room that morning and there was no way that he could know, nobody would have spilled the beans, but he did know, somehow. "What the fuck? What does that even mean?"

"You know what it means," Tyson replied smugly.

"No." Gabe glanced in Nikita's direction, knowing that he gave himself away, sealed and confirmed Tyson's assumptions in a nice gift box. "I'm not talking about this here."

"Later! All the details. And that's a saying, by the way, that the cat got the cream. Because they really like cream or milk or whatever so they're pleased as fuck when they get it because it's like a treat." Tyson waved vaguely.

"Right," Gabe said, drawing out the word slowly. "Now get ready for practice, Brutes. We have playoffs coming up soon. We need to stay focused."

"Ten-four, big buddy."

Gabe shared a look with Nikita, his face pinched with exasperation, and Nikita's face answered with a smug I-told-you-so look that was really completely and totally unnecessary. 

So they had just lost the first game of the playoffs and their captain was stressed, and reasonably so. This was their first taste of playoffs in, like, ever, and they had been completely outworked, in over their heads, and much like a midget team trying to take on a pro team. It was ridiculous and Gabe was stressed and pissed and frustrated.

"Is that the best you got?" Gabe stood in the middle of the room and turned to face each and every one of them. Only a few brave souls could meet his eyes. "Because that isn't the best I got, that's for sure, and I'm ashamed of my performance out there. I know I have to be better, every shift I have to put it out there. We all have to find out where we need to be better. Dig deep. Dig as deep as you fucking can."

They turned things around and won the first series in five games against Calgary. Spirits were high, confidence growing and they felt like a cohesive team. Gabe was proud of the results they were getting, everyone was taking responsibility and they just had to press onwards.

At a media scrum they asked: _"What do you think about the five minute major call on Vegas?"_

It gave Gabe a sour taste in his mouth: it wasn't something that he wanted to focus on. Yeah, he'd seen the play but that wasn't something he wanted to focus on, or think about right now at all. Too many questions, too many distractions that they couldn't afford.

He retreated to the lounge to sit and no one else bothered him.

The buzzer felt like heartbreak. 

Everything crashed down on their shoulders, and a gutless suckerpunch to the throat, and they were right back in reality once again. It was game over; it was season over. To get this close and to fall in this fashion was just devastating, and it left a cold empty feeling in Gabe's chest, colder than the ice. This wasn't their year, and it could have been. It could have been.

Gabe spent hours in the film room after the game, losing himself in the video and unable to let go. 

There was one specific play that was obsessing on: the one play that may have cost them the game, where Gabe's skate had been considered offsides and it voided their goal. Maybe they still would have lost the game, no one knew for sure, but this took the air out of their tires and the mountain was too tall to climb, and predictably, they fell. 

The screen was frozen on that play and all he could do was frown at the screen. 

Gabe startled when the door opened behind him, because he wasn't expecting anyone else to be here. It'd been hours since the final buzzer and he was sure that everyone had left to grieve on their own and with their own devices. Except that wasn't the case because Nikita stood in the doorway and Gabe realized he must have been waiting for him, all this time.

"Nikita," he said, at a loss.

Nikita pulled up a chair to sit beside him, his face unreadable as usual, but Gabe could spot the tense line of his shoulders and felt the misery that radiating from him. 

"Think too much, Gabe." Practical, sensible Nikita. 

However, Gabe didn't want to hear it right now. He ducked away from the gentle rap of knuckles against his temple and he was unable to speak, unable to look at the man beside him. His feelings were conflicted: it was one thing to tell others these things, but it was a whole different thing to hear someone say it to him and mean it for him. hHe was the captain here, he was the one that reassured everyone else. The strong one, the leader, but here he was, with nothing. Nothing to say and no energy to be that strong one right now.

"Beside, you know what this is—"

"No," Gabe cut him off sharply, his tone booking no argument. A warning. "Don't you say it, Nik."

"Ducking head under dirt not make less true."

"How can you just," Gabe gestured vaguely. "Sit there all calm and relaxed like we haven't just lost a fucking game seven in round two. How can you sit and make... make..." But Gabe can't say the words that have been fighting for daylight in his head, to say them would give them life and he was unable to give them that power.

Nikita pointed, a hard jabbing motion at the screen. "Not only mistake. I make mistake. I let up goal. Other make mistake too. Not just you. We all fuck up. And," he paused, trying to collect his thoughts. "We saw Vegas game. We know more in play here. We control our shit, not them. We not control tonight."

"Then," Gabe closed his eyes, feeling them watering, "How do you keep playing? When all the odds are stacked against you?"

"You tell me, cap."

Gabe took a long time to sort through his thoughts, with Nikita's words sitting there at the back of his mind. It was hard for him to think clearly, with the exhaustion covering him like a blanket. But he eventually trudged to a decision. He reached out to shut off the screen and turned to Nikita, who had been sitting next to him the entire time, waiting patiently. Nikita's hand had crept to rest on Gabe's thigh at some point.

"No one fucking gets to decide my game except for me."

"And me," Nikita piped up lightly, to which Gabe shot him an amused look. "Next time we get done. Next time decide fate. Not fat face suit who think they look good wear pinstripe."

It got a small smile out of Gabe and he murmured, "You're something else." His hand rested on top of Nikita's. 

The end of a season never came easy: whether your team was at the bottom of the barrel or if they were in the hunt for the cup. An abrupt end, the ties all cut. Everyone had to drop the hockey mindset, the competition and rejoin the real world for awhile. It was never easy going from living and breathing hockey to having too much time on one's hands. Today was the first day of that, right after they packed everything up. The mood of the room was muted as everyone gathered to collect their things, give their exit interviews and say goodbye.

Gabe tried to keep his tone even for his interview, but his frustration, his annoyance crept through at times. He wanted to be far away from here, from the muted mood that lingered in the air, from the disappointed looks on everyone's faces that they tried to hide. It was too much and Gabe needed to be anywhere but there. Though he had to stay, for now, because he wasn't about to abandon his team no matter how difficult it was to be in this situation. His anxiety was going to have to take a backseat for the time being.

But when sufficient time had passed Gabe grabbed his bundle of hockey sticks and made a beeline for the door, with the intention of not looking back.

"Here," Nikita said as he suddenly appeared to hold open the door. "Let help."

"Thank you." Gabe maneuvered through the door. "And it's _let me help_. Don't forget your pronouns, Nikita." He can't resist the one last opportunity to chirp him, but even that caused a pang in his chest.

Nikita narrowed his eyes. "Gabe like Nikita bad english."

"In your dreams."

Nikita opened the door to the outside and helped him get the sticks in the car. Then Nikita crowded him against the trunk. The look on his face was unreadable as always, but Gabe was doing everything in his power not to look at him, not with the reminder that he probably wasn't going to see him again for months. That they were never going to get past this stage where all they did was dance around each other.

"They're going to talk."

Nikita ignored it and asked instead, "Going home and mope more?"

"I am not moping," Gabe defended. He was itchy to get away from the dark gaze that was focused intently on him like Nikita was seeing right through him. And he probably did, really, because Gabe had never been all that great at concealing his feelings. He was pretty much an open book.

"You mope one night. Now stop time. I fix that."

"How?"

"We get way from all hockey."

"All?" Gabe scoffed, looking off to the side, still stubbornly not looking at him. "That might be difficult, Nik. You know it's my life force and all that. There's no blood in my veins, just hockey." He paused. "Maybe a little blood. I seem to bleed when people punch me."

Nikita hummed. "No punching. No blood. Just road trip way from here. Maybe drive beach."

"What? But--" Gabe cut himself off, rethinking his words. There wasn't a good enough excuse to give to deter Nikita he was sure of it, especially because he'd be lying. There was nothing more that Gabe wanted right now than to just fuck off and drive far away from Denver, except maybe to have Nikita at his side as he was doing it.

Nikita must read the longing on his face because he cupped Gabe's cheek, guiding his face to look at him. So Gabe swallowed and lifted his gaze to meet Nikita's. "We do this, da? We need this. You, me, and open road. You can drive like grandma, da?" 

"Hey!" He exclaimed, startled and amused at being called out like that.

"Quiet. No media. Just you and me." Nikita cupped both his cheeks and kissed him now, a slow and thorough kiss, kissing him deep enough that Gabe felt it in his bones. "If not want then not smile, okay? Smile mean you say yes. Smile mean yes. So not smile."

Gabe smiled. "You drive a hard bargain, Nikita."

"Not hard. Not yet." A wink before Gabe was ushered into the car. The loss still ached in their chests, but Gabe felt another tension slowly unravel.


End file.
